


A Song of Steam

by originally



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Steampunk, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-23
Updated: 2017-11-23
Packaged: 2019-01-29 08:13:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12626799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/originally/pseuds/originally
Summary: Stannis and Jon prepare for the coming fight against the cyborg army of the dead.





	A Song of Steam

**Author's Note:**

  * For [linndechir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/linndechir/gifts).



> Thanks to Vana for the beta read. Written for the prompt 'Steampunk AU'; I wish I had time to write the epic this prompt deserves, but I hope this snapshot will be satisfying!

In the dawn stillness, King Stannis Baratheon found comfort in the sounds of his ship, the sighs and whirrs and clanks that told him of her steady progress. He settled his gloved hand against the smooth metal of her hull, feeling the thrum of her mighty engine deep below: the beat of her heart. It was a fanciful notion that he would never admit to, but he would grant himself this one indulgence, here at the end of things. Though the hour was early, the crew were already about; he nodded to them as he crossed the deck to stand at the prow. He breathed in and then out, a lungful of frigid Northern air to focus his body and mind. Far below, fresh snow blanketed crop fields and battlefields alike, and ahead, gleaming bronze in the weak light of morning, was the Wall.

It rose out of the white plains, an impassable barrier of re-purposed scrap reaching high into the air. From this vantage point, though, it was easy to see the patchwork surface, the holes and fault lines where Night’s Watch repairs had been rushed or strained, the fissures where Mance Rayder’s weapons had pierced it. It would not hold for long against a new assault. Beyond, far to the north, the sun blazed a deep orange against a sky the colour of rust. It struggled to penetrate the haze of dust and smoke that hung in the air before it, belched from the mighty chimneys of the fortress of the Others, where furnaces roared day and night to forge the parts to animate their soldiers. That smog crept ever forward, down over the mountains and the haunted forest, threatening as it did so to blot out the light altogether. With it came the army of the dead. Stannis was ready to meet them when they arrived.

The weapon—his wife's masterwork—stood ready on the deck. It was poised like a bird of prey, beautiful and terrible both. Selyse had painted it the colour of blood and emblazoned it with a comet and the name 'Red Witch'. Folly, to put stock in superstition and folk tales, but the men seemed reassured by it. Stannis himself felt reassured by the power he’d seen displayed at the Blackwater; the red fire it brought forth had laid waste to even the Imp’s most ingenious devices, leaving the battlefield a smoking ruin, the stench of charred meat and burning fuel almost overwhelming. Now only this last enemy remained.

Behind Stannis came the hiss of a steam piston and the whistle of a vent. His fingers tightened briefly on the rail.

"Your Grace."

Even had he not the wolf's heavy footsteps to forewarn him, Stannis would have known that voice with its mechanical undertones. Beautiful and terrible. He steeled himself and turned.

Jon Snow still dressed in black, though his duty to the Night's Watch had long since been discharged. The brass buttons on his high-collared coat were polished to a shine, to match the goggles he never removed. At his side stood Ghost, the mechawolf, frost turning its chassis a glittering white. With the _plink_ of cooling metal, a puff of steam escaped its nostrils to dissipate in the air. No such simulacrum of breath escaped Jon Snow, though Stannis could hear the regular wheeze of the iron lungs Selyse had fitted in his chest. Around his shoulders he wore a fur-lined white cloak, adorned with a crowned stag. Stannis breathed out.

"Ser Jon," he said. "You accepted my offer." 

Jon inclined his head briefly, the flicker of a smile passing across his long, solemn face. “Aye, Your Grace,” he said. “It shall be my honour to serve in your Kingsguard.”

 _Though my tenure may be short_ remained unspoken; Stannis heard it all the same. Should they fail, this would be the last dawn the Seven Kingdoms would ever see. They must succeed, at any price. Stannis only hoped they would both live long enough to see Jon take the vows the proper way. 

“Are the preparations complete?” Stannis asked.

“Aye, Your Grace. Ser Davos sent the message that he and his men are in place. The other ships are behind us. And Lady Selyse assured me the Witch is fully operational.”

“And you?”

A moment’s hesitation. Stannis heard the clank of iron lungs again. Not for the first time, he longed to see behind the tinted glass of Jon Snow’s goggles.

“Also fully operational, Your Grace. Lady Selyse—” Jon paused again. “Lady Selyse has been working on something new. She made the final adjustments last night.” He removed his glove to reveal shifting ripples of Valyrian steel, pneumatic levers working as he flexed each of his fingers in turn. A flick of his wrist revealed wicked blades, forged from the same steel.

“Longclaw,” Jon said, with a hint of self-deprecation in his voice. “It’s strong, and light. It should give me the edge if it comes to a melee.”

Despite himself, Stannis found his eyes drawn to the place where steel and flesh met. He had not seen the extent of the damage first hand, only had it related on his return to Castle Black. Sometimes he wondered just how much of Jon Snow remained, how much his wife had made machine. It did not make him proud to recall the night he’d succumbed to base desire and gone to Jon’s chambers many moons ago, though the memory had warmed him more often than he’d care to admit during this long winter war. But would Jon still be warm? Would touching him feel like touching a man, or like touching his ship, or his pistol? Or, worse: was Jon's flesh as cold as his metal parts, dead like that of the cyborg wights that marched upon them?

As if he could sense Stannis’s improper thoughts, Jon grimaced, tugging down his sleeve and slipping his mechanical hand back into his glove.

Stannis cleared his throat and said, “With the weapon, it shouldn’t come to that.”

“I hope you’re right.”

Stannis turned back to his lookout, and Jon joined him at the railing.

“Whatever happens, Your Grace—” Jon began, but trailed off as the ship lurched, buffeted by the air currents above the Wall. The trees of the haunted forest came into view, and with them the devastation that the Others and their army had wrought upon the land.

Stannis laid a hand on Jon’s shoulder for just a moment before striding out across the deck, calling orders to the crew.

They were beyond. It was time to begin.


End file.
